


Propter Invicta

by Invictusimpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hunters, Angel Castiel, M/M, Owner Dean, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Winged Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Invictusimpala/pseuds/Invictusimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently all angels have fallen from Heaven. While confused, humans made to capture them and sell them off as pets, illegal slaves, and toys for Earth-dwellers. Shelters like the one Dean is making his way towards are all over the world, hosting angels in cells, their conditions horrible at best, unlivable at worst. Dean Winchester attempts to free one by bringing him into his home, and he quickly finds out why angels are not meant to be living on Earth in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Propter Invicta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings, ratings, tags, and added characters will change with each chapter. Thank you so much for reading, enjoy :)

Dean’s driven days for this. Days. He’s driven further before, but never for something as rewarding as this. The car protests every mile, and so do his thighs, cramped in a small space like they aren’t supposed to be, but it’s worth it.

The road passes by, turns into dirt and then he’s reached his destination after an agonizing twelve straight hours with no stops other than to get gas, and that slice of pie that’s making his stomach turn.

He pulls into the only parking spot available, considering there are only three, and he yanks the key out of the ignition when he knows he’s within the chalk lines and not scratching his beloved car against the nasty, snot-green Pontiac in the spot adjacent to the impala.

The building in front of him is a bright yellow color, probably to give the place a cheerier feel, to draw people in, but the bricks are chipping off, big chunks lying on the ground, red beneath the slather of shiny paint so their efforts to conceal what used to be is useless. Dean waits in his baby until both the cars next to him have left, waits until it’s dark out and the color of the building is muted, only catching the light of the moon shining bright in the night sky. His appointment isn’t until all that has happened, and when it’s time, he walks up the steps to get inside. It’s brightly lit, and carpeted in the lobby. It’s a pretty tall building, at least seven stories, open and wide, and the lobby is a good place to start, he thinks.

He stretches for a few moments as he takes in the scene. A fish tank stands off to one side along with a coffee machine and a water dispenser.

Grabbing himself a cup of water, he washes down a few painkillers. He turns around and catches the eye of the person filing paperwork.

Behind the marble counter stands a woman. She’s short, blonde, round, and she looks nice enough that she quells a little bit of the nervousness eating away at Dean’s insides.

He smiles at her and she nods to him.

“Can I help you?” She asks curtly, and Dean flinches. So, not so nice after all. Dean sighs. He’s never been a good judge of people, and that flaw will probably bring him to his grave.

All he’s here for is an angel and nothing more. He doesn’t want to have to deal with this woman for more than he has to.

Angels had appeared years ago, confused because of their sudden drop from Heaven. At first, humans had welcomed them, but when society realized what ‘great pets’ angels made, it became a norm to own one. Not even as a slave or a pet, just to own one for the sake of it. Their wings are beautiful — different shapes and colors, different types with patterns unique to nothing he’s ever seen. Angels, he supposes, are the only ones possessing the traits they do. They’re like something out of a fairy-tale. Some don’t even look human. Some just plain aren’t, and that scares the shit out of him. He’s seen the ones with webbed wings that swim in the water, or the angels with black fingers made so they can sift through lava to clean their dragon-like wings, the angels that breathe fire whom he’s most afraid of. But, those types of angels aren’t common in the area, so he tamps down on the nervousness that’s invaded his system. His neighbor, a man who lives nearer to the lake than he does, owns an aquatic angel who spits water at Dean whenever he goes for a morning walk no matter the weather.

He doesn't know her name, but like Ariel, her hair is bright red. That's what he's taken to calling her. Recently they've got to talking about Dean's adventures into the Angelic world. She's not happy about it, but they don't know each other well. He's not worried.

That wouldn’t be too bad to be stuck with an angel like that, he muses, he could work around it.

Benny’s angel, Samandriel, is flightless, a garden fae. Dean hopes he’s paired with someone like that. His skin is a light green color, barely noticeable, but the wings on his back made up of vines, branches, sometimes little fruits in the spring however, are. They make the perfect match. They go out to movies and Samandriel will eat all of the food Benny makes without questions, most time with the biggest smile Dean’s ever seen. They’re more friends than anything else, and Dean enjoys seeing them together. He suspects more is going on between them, but he never asks. At least Benny treats him right.

Some people take angels as slaves even though it’s against the law; the bills passed prohibiting unlawful acts towards any angel of any kind.

Shelters like this are all over the world, housing angels, but the conditions are shitty at best, unlivable at worst. They don’t cater to the needs of the angels, and most die within the first month. Dean knows this one is one of those that doesn’t have suitable living conditions; that’s why he’s here.

Sam, his younger brother, is into all that activism about the angels and had taken Gabriel into his home the first chance he could, an honor to house an archangel as powerful as he; even though he’s a trickster, teasing Sam and begging him until he gets what he wants like the man-child he is, Dean has to admit, the guy is pretty cool.

Sam had insisted Dean go and save an angel, after all, they were going to be stuck in this shelter forever if he didn’t.

So, here he is, walking in alone to get himself an angel or two . . . or ten.

“Sir, please step up to the desk.” He steps up further, and an alarm goes off. The woman steps around the table, shoving between his shoulders, a taser in her other hand that he shrinks away from. “Please remove everything from your pockets, such as a phone, keys, wallet, anything. It will be given back to you at the end of your visit.”

Dean pulls everything from them, turns his pockets inside out so the woman can see that he’s clean.

“Please remove your clothing and then you are allowed to pass through the door to begin to file paperwork. The room in which you will be in is number 0398273 - OBM. You will be there for the duration of your stay.”

“Of my stay?” He asks incredulously.

“This process can take up to three days, sir. First we do this, put you in the room, you have one of the nicer ones, might I add. Then you file paperwork like I said, and we decide which of the angels is best suited for you based on the environment in which you will be living, your income, et cetera. Finally, we set you up in a different room with angel after angel until you find a suitable match. If you don’t find your match here, we will send you to another shelter.”

Dean’s shoulders slump. He thought it’d be about an hour, maybe two. Possibly three, but up to three days? It must be a fucking joke.

“I’m sorry; I think I might have made a mistake coming here.”

“If you leave this facility, you can’t come back, I hope you know that. If you don’t go through with it you can’t return to this shelter ever again or it’s open fire. I would go through with it if I were you.” Her expression softens to one of a mother, and Dean is briefly grief stricken as he remembers why he’s doing this — to put a new constant in his life to replace all the ones that’ve left. He kicks at the carpet, and then leans forward to unlace and toe off his boots.

He doesn’t dwell, pushes his worries back like always; just continues to strip down until she tells him he can go past the threshold of the door behind her.

The doctor-like environment gives way to one of a science lab. He’s not wearing shoes, only wearing his undershirt and boxers. Dean’s glad he chose to wear clean underwear today.

He shivers.

The hallway is completely metal, and the temperature is so cold he wonders if that door was some sort of supernatural portal into the goddamn arctic. The floors are shiny, and his feet make suction-cup sounds as he pads towards his room.

The door is open, number 0398273 - OBM, he’s checked three times. It’s a large metal door with a small, grated window on the top of it he can barely reach to see out of. It’s made of thick steel that Dean can see his reflection in. He looks worried and tired, purpling bags under his eyes that sit next to deep lines.

Only a moment after walking into the room does the door slam shut.

What the hell has he just walked into, he asks himself.

The room is huge, bigger than his apartment. There’s a king sized bed in the left corner, a table in the center of the space, a stack of papers and three pens atop it, and a chair behind it to finish off the look.

Another door labeled ‘BATHROOM’ in bright red, big letters is to his right. The door is wide like the first one, probably to accommodate non-human persons passing through. He opens it, and is glad when it doesn’t close behind him. A closet is to his left which he opens as well. It’s full of clothes, a few pairs of pants, a couple shirts, new underwear.

There are angel clothes on another shelf, ones that are made to fit around wings, fins, tails, most anything, really. They look comfier than the clothes he’s been designated, and he’s tempted to wear them, rebel a little, but he ultimately decides against it in favor of exploring some more.

A bath (read Jacuzzi) is installed into the floor, empty now, but Dean is planning a soak for later, excited already about the thought of bubbling water and massaging jets that will probably sooth the crick in his neck brought on by lack of support. His car is old, after all, but he’ll give up some amount of comfort if it means he gets to keep her.

A toilet and urinal are to the left of it, sectioned off with another closeable door. He relieves himself, and then washes his hands with the fancy soap on the side of the sink. He avoids the mirror and anything else that reflects his image as he takes his clothing off with shaking hands. He balls them up into fists for a moment to calm his nerves.

Dean pulls on a new pair of pants and exits the bathroom. The rest of the big space is empty besides the aforementioned furniture and papers. Nothing besides the pen and papers, clothes and soaps are there. Not one single thing. It's wrong, frightening, foreign, and he tries not to think too hard about it lest he lose what little control he has. Dean inhales deeply, letting it out slowly before he moves around the table to sit.

The metal of the chair is cold under him even through the thick, soft fabric of the grey pants he’s wearing. It sends a shiver down his spine that’s not entirely pleasant. He pulls the first paper off the stack, which is a good thirty pages high. The font is large, so he figures that factors into why there are so many pages.

Most of the questions are fill in, but some are multiple choice. Great, Dean thinks, now he’s starting to remember high school. He stops those thoughts before they wander.

He looks at what the first few questions are, confused, but he fills it all out meticulously, making sure that each paper, each line, is covered in his handwriting.

Dean wants, more than anything, to find the perfect match. Before leaving for this place out in the middle of no where, he’d cleaned and cleaned, every nook and cranny, each corner and shelf. Under each shirt and in the cabinets. Everywhere.

His apartment isn’t large, but all of a sudden the shelves went on forever. His shoulder still hurts from when he cleaned under the bathroom sink.

Sam helped some, to move out old pieces of furniture and move in new ones, to fit another bed into his room so the angel living with him has a nice place to sleep if that’s how they want to.

Bobby had an angel with bat wings that liked to hang from the ceiling. Dean knows they won’t pair him with an angel like that, his living space is too small.

The lights above his head flicker, and it breaks him out of his reverie. He looks up and that’s when he sees them. The cameras are small, implanted in the wall, but they are there nonetheless. They move when he moves, the lenses focusing in and out, moving left and right as he does.

Dean's angry about it, being watched, but if it means he gets to be with an angel as the end result, he'll deal with it like the big boy he is.

Back to paperwork.

It takes him three hours to work through just a quarter of the pile, and then his hand is too tired to move anymore, cramping up in a way that’s unfamiliar to him. He shakes his hand out, cracking his fingers and the knuckles pop, moving in the sockets. He groans as it alleviates some of the ache itching under his skin.

He works for another hour before it becomes too much. His handwriting is becoming unreadable, with little jags as ink spills from the nib. He sighs and removes it, but the black ink gets everywhere, all over his arms. He throws the pen into the trash bin when he enters the bathroom. He tries not to get the ink on his clothes, but it’s inevitable.

After washing his hands to the best of his abilities, he peels off the pants and sets them to the side to be washed later.

He leaves his boxers on while he draws the water into the tub, but he takes off his shirt. He doesn’t look down just like always. The round of his stomach is becoming a little too noticeable for his liking, and the curve of his thighs is something he’s always hated; too feminine.

The burns that make tracks down his legs he ignores, but he rubs some lotion into them when they start to itch. It’s the phantom feeling the doctor told him to be wary of.

In the first week after they had fully healed, in his sleep he scratched them until he bled through the mattress. Right now it feels like his skin is hot. He holds his cold fingers on the skin until the tub is full and he can get in.

His boxers are tossed to the side, and then he’s slipping into the bath with a long, loud groan. The water is tinted black briefly as the ink on his skin is washed away, but then Dean turns on the jets and it clears. He moans as the water pounds into his lower back. He holds his feet over two of them and waits until the muscles have fully relaxed, and then he moves onto his calves.

He washes his whole body with the aloe stuff from the side of the tub. He feels better than he has in years. His shower could never do this. The apartment he lives in is nice, but the pressure feels less like a shower, and more like someone is peeing on him.

When he’s done cleaning up, he wades for a while until the water turns cold. He reluctantly turns off the jets and gets out.

A rack is above the tub, and he grabs two white, fluffy towels to dry himself off with.

The burns on his arms are still aching, so he rubs at them until the pain recedes. His back no longer hurts, but his skin feels rubbed raw, red and burning which is not helping the phantom pains that make his fingers twitch.

He wipes the water off of himself, and then grabs a fresh pair of clothes to put himself into.

These pants are white and thick, meant for sleeping, and his eyes droop. He doesn’t bother with underwear or a shirt, it’s warmer in here than out in the hall.

His hands wander to his eyes, and he rubs at them. A fuzzy feeling fills his head as he exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

The bed looks inviting, big and comfy, so he goes to lie down. He's hungry, his stomach growling, and he hopes they feed him in this place or things aren't going to go over well at all.

An intercom crackles to life and Dean freezes his movements, halfway through pulling the blankets off the mattress, his other hand holding a pillow.

"Food will be delivered in an hour." A monotone voice echoes over the speakers, and Dean sighs, his stomach lurching at the thought of having to wait another sixty minutes for half-assed food.

Curling up under the blankets, he tries to get some warmth back into his body that left when he got out of the bath. He doesn't fall asleep quickly, maybe gets half an hour of it before he's woken, but it's well worth the new energy pumping through his veins after he gets up out of the bed.

It smells clean, fresh, like the sheets were just washed thoroughly, and he knows his own back home smell the same. He can't wait to drive back there, hopefully with another person in his passenger seat.

Dean stretches, moaning as the joints in his shoulders pop satisfyingly just like this knuckles, and he holds his arms out in front of him, yawning as he does, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, shaking the heavy feeling from his head.

There's a knock at the door, and then it's being opened. A short young man, only about seventeen Dean would guess, comes in with a burger and a plate of fries, two water bottles, and another cup filled with something he doesn't recognize, but it smells awful. 

He walks around the room and gathers things, the pen from the trash, the towels Dean used, the clothing he soiled, and his old boxers. He leaves the room only to come back in with another set of clothes, three more pens, and a stack of towels, washcloths, and a clean pair of underwear he throws in Dean’s direction.

The kid nods to him before closing the door again, and he hears the quiet sound of the lock being shifted back into place. He goes over to the table, sitting down, ready to eat.

It looks fine enough, although there isn't enough ketchup, and there are no onions on the damn thing, but he'll survive. He was expecting oatmeal, so this is Heaven, no pun intended.

He eats the food quickly, doesn't want the plate taken from him in the middle of eating. This place looks like one of those to have those sort of employees.

When he's done, the same kid comes to get the tray, which has the plate and the cup of nasty tea on it. The kid snorts, shaking his head, and then takes it out of the room.

For some reason Dean feels like that was a test.

He's drunken one of the water bottles, and the other one is in the bathroom to be consumed at a later date. Maybe to botch all the paperwork because it's taking _for-fucking-ever_.

He takes a deep breath, tamping some of his frustration down because he knows it's going to get him no where. Sitting at the table again is hard, the chair is beating up his back and he already feels sick of it, like he wants to flip it over. The legs are bolted to the floor so there's no point in attempting it.

He fills out ten more pages, another ten to go, he tells himself, but it falls flat, his brain, his hand, everything too tired to do anything more than lay his head down on the table and fall back to sleep.

In the morning, at least he thinks it's morning, there's not clock, he's happy that he moved the paper out of the way because there is a sizable pool of drool under his face he refuses to believe he made all himself.

He wipes it off the table, getting back to work the second his head is working again. If he finishes this paperwork now, early in the morning, he can spend the rest of the day speaking to angels.

He's never actually talked to an angel other than to Gabriel, sometimes Ariel, and even they are selective about whom he talks to if they aren't Sam. Sam is known throughout the community as an advocate for them, and Dean is not. He tries not to take it too personally. Dean figures the only reason Gabriel manages to be kind to him is because he's the brother of Sam, Ariel however has been kinder as of late because of the pies Dean sneaks to her.

Dean knows that Gabriel and Sam are in a romantic relationship with each other, and he's totally fine with that, he helped to get Gabriel 'off the grid' so they could be together, and he hopes it works out like that for him. It’d be a blessing to have an angel like Gabe, one that didn’t run away the second they were out of the building.

Actually, he hopes the angel likes him first, that would be nice.

Sam told Dean that Gabriel tore his couch up on the first day and then spilled syrup all into the cracks in it.

Dean hopes nothing like that happens to him, although he doubts he'll be that lucky. He hasn't been in anything else.

The final few pages of paperwork are ridiculous. Who the hell would want to know if he likes raisins or not? What the _fuck_ kind of angel would want to know how many times a day he drinks a cup of coffee?

Dean fills it out anyway. Everything here is a test, Sammy told him as much, especially at this shelter.

When he's done, he waits. And waits. And waits.

He waits for four hours and nothing happens. He counted every second of it.

Dean showers even though he knows they're watching him, which is a little weird. For some reason it seems worse than the bath. He relieves himself, he brushes his teeth and combs through his hair, using a little bit of that gel stuff from under the sink.

The mirror is dirty, so he cleans it with a washcloth.

He cleans up his mess, double and then triple checks he's filled out the paperwork correctly, that the pages are in the right order.

He makes the bed and then lays on it, ankles crossed, but he can only do so much in one room with _nothing_ in it.

He looks everywhere for some form of thing he can do, a problem he can fix -- a leaky pipe, or a weird towel to be thrown out.

There's nothing. Absolutely nothing in the main room or in the bathroom.

The big metal door, which is his only way in or out, stays resolutely closed.

When he starts to tire himself out, pacing, running around the big space until he's in need of another shower, he falls to sleep yet again.

He wakes to a booming sound, a rattle of metal, and then a flurry of wings as someone is thrown into his -- the -- room. The door slams closed unlike it's usual soft clicking sound.

Dean stays on the bed, holding the covers over his lower half as he still hasn't put any pants on, only the boxers the kid from earlier gave him.

The woman is beautiful. She's tall and well built, tan and healthy looking. The clothes she's wearing are baggy, but he can see the curve of her waist and the dip of her slender hips.

He averts his gaze as she rights herself, combing fingers through her silver feathers.

"What is your name?" She asks, and he openly stares. Her accent is something he can't place, but it's beautiful, unlike anything he's heard.

Gabriel is different, but the same in some respects. His voice has the same bell-like tone, definitely angelic.

"Winchester. Dean Winchester." She brushes off her hands on the denim of her pants.

"Ramiel, angel of thunder and joy." She grins sarcastically at him, and he huffs a quiet laugh. When she shoots him a warning glance his smile falters. "They keep trying to fit me with men like you, but it never works out."

"Why not?"

"They are all assholes." Dean laughs loudly, and she cracks a small smile, picking at the dirt under her filed nails. They glint, probably painted with a polish before coming to see him.

"I'm sorry if I come off as an asshole, I'm really not. At least I try not to be."

"Tell me about yourself." It catches him off guard.

"What?"

"Tell me about yourself," she repeats, and his brow furrows.

"My name is Dean Winchester, I'm thirty --"

"You know that is not what I meant." An awkward silence hangs in the air, and he sighs.

“My mom died last year,” he lets it sit on the table for a second. He has to blink to keep his emotions in check. “My dad followed pretty soon after. It’s been hard trying to . . . anyway. My brother told me it was probably ‘bout time I got into a relationship, or into therapy, he didn’t care which as long as I started to take care of myself, got out there again, out of the pit I put myself in. It’s not easy, but I think havin' another friend in my life will probably help, at least that’s what Sammy says.”

"Sammy is your brother, I assume?"

"Sam, it's, uh, just Sam."

She nods.

"My name is Ramiel, and I am in love with another."

"Fair enough. What's his name?"

"Her name is Anael and she is the most beautiful woman I have met."

"Where is she?"

"Heaven."

"Oh, I . . . I'm sorry."

"Do not be, it happens to the best of us. That is why they are trying to fit me with one of you thinking it will cure my broken heart, but it never works out."

"I get it. Sam's fiancée died six years ago and he's still not over it. He's dating Gabriel the archangel, and --”

Ramiel's sharp intake of breath makes worry coil through his veins.

"Gabriel?" She asks, and he nods.

"Uh, yeah, is that a bad thing?"

"No, but I should not be here. You should be meeting with someone else, although I doubt they will allow it."

"What? I . . . don't leave, explain!" He calls after her, trying to catch up to her, but she waves a wing and suddenly a gust of wind has him pinned to the wall.

"Another time perhaps, Dean Winchester, but not today, and not soon." The door opens, and she leaves. It closes again before he can reach it.

He hears her bickering with the guards outside, maybe another person as well, but even with his ear pressed to the door, body lined up with it as close as he can get, he still cannot make out words.

They're talking about him, he's gathered as much, but beyond that nothing else.

He retreats back further into the room, but it doesn't stop bothering him until he falls back asleep and starts to forget.

He dreams of Sam, about how worried he must be, and then there's fire everywhere, enveloping his body.

He watches as his skin melts off his bones and he wakes up screaming out for help, for anyone to come save his family because he _couldn't_.

Dean gasps for air, gulping it down into his lungs, letting it stay there for a moment before letting it back out in a big gush that makes his head spin.

He twists his body this way and that, letting himself wake up, realizing where he is, back in reality.

Except that dream was reality, _is_ his reality, he's just sitting here trying to avoid it. Jesus, he thinks, how proud would his parents be of him if they saw him sitting here now? Not very, he realizes, and he grunts unhappily.

Rolling out bed, he makes his way to the bathroom where he finishes up his morning ablutions. It's weird doing them in a bathroom that isn't his own, but he's growing used to the room here, the big space instead of a little one like his apartment. There's more room to cover. If he needs to escape, it's going to be harder for him, nearly impossible.

Damn his paranoia. Dean curses as he cuts his chin shaving, too deep in thought to realize how hard he's pressing.

He swears again, a string of them passing his lips as he digs around for some tissue paper.

He puts it over the cut, finishing up the rest of his face and his neck before he washes it off, making sure there's no little glob of white puff to embarrass him later.

He slathers after-shave all over, but it doesn't have a smell. Actually, now that he thinks about it, none of this stuff smells like anything, and that's why the sheets smell so clean and seem so fresh. The towels are crisp, white, unscented. The bar of soap in the shower, which is next to the Jacuzzi in a little stall, has no smell, no scent left on his body from it.

He figures it's probably because angels from these centers aren't used to such strong smelling things. That's what he tries to convince himself of, anyways. He knows some of the garden fae aren’t susceptible to having allergy attacks since they’re walking, talking plants, but he knows Ariel, his neighbor’s angel, hates when Dean wears any sort of cologne or even deodorant, doesn't like any sort of oils in her water.

He tidies up again, and he makes sure to go slow so it lasts for the better half of two hours.

He's so bored, about to start itching at his skin to offer himself some form of comfort, to ebb the frustration that makes his bones creak, makes his head hurt, but he knows that’s not a good idea. He had to learn that the hard way.

He knows among other things under the sink, there's also Advil, but he's wary of what the pills might actually contain besides painkillers. He misses them. His skin hurts, and his burns itch.

He's not going to risk it even if his brain is about to break out of his skull, though, so he leaves them untouched under the spotless sink.

The kid, he's learned his name is Kevin, has brought him food twice today, but no more visitors come around, and he doesn’t get anymore clean towels, so he leaves his body dirty. He’ll take his last shower tonight.

It's been two days here, going on the third, and if they don't find the proper match for him soon, he's about to storm out the door while flipping them the bird.

Right now it seems like this all is a waste of his time.

Patience, he tells himself, is what he needs right now because if he makes one wrong move, he'll be in the system as a violent adopter for the rest of his life, and no angels will ever be able to be around him let alone in his home with him.

He practices the breathing techniques taught to him by Sam, lets his brain quiet down, his thoughts run as he slumps against the wall where he's sitting on the floor.

Dean becomes so relaxed, slipping into a sort of meditation, that he doesn't hear the door open and close until there's someone in front of him, in his face.

"What are you doing?" The man asks, and Dean jumps, his heart pounding, his fists clenched, lungs aching for air that he can't get fast enough.

"Trying to catch my goddamn breath, Jesus Christ, could you be a little louder next time? You almost gave me a heart attack."

The man's eyes narrow. He looks tired, bags and wrinkles under his eyes proving Dean's point. His hair is mussed, sticking up in every direction and Dean longs to run his fingers through it for some reason.

He spends a long time just looking at the guy, at how he moves, or actually how he doesn't because it seems like he's more statue-like than angel-like.

His wings fan out behind him, two large, midnight blue appendages. Some stray feathers flutter to the floor when he moves them, and Dean watches them float down.

He is sitting with his legs crossed in front of Dean's sprawled out form, and he stands, making sure he doesn't alert the angel, but he looks far from perturbed.

Annoyed, maybe, but angry, no.

"Who are you?" Dean asks, and he stands up slowly, and for the first time in a long time, Dean feels true terror, he's in awe of this guy, whoever he is.

"I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord, of Thursday, and of solitude."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](http://www.invictus-impala.tumblr.com)  
>  I am taking prompts there, if you're interested :)  
> (More info on that [here](http://www.invictus-impala.tumblr.com/post/99871679299/im-taking-prompts-now-yay-if-you))


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